


You're All I Need

by Violet_Jones



Series: Backdrifting [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cats, Hot Tub, I Love You, Junk Food - Freeform, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Snowed In, Swimming, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-12-30 15:51:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: Eight months after "Backdrifting" (AU: Canon-divergent from ep 305) - A horrible winter storm is brewing outside, but the bigger catastrophe plays out inside the shelter.





	You're All I Need

Ian’s never really believed in Valentine’s Day. Even when he's happened to be with someone when the arbitrary date rolled around, it'd seemed silly. He didn’t like the fabricated traditionalism of it. Sure, his disdain for the holiday was more acute when he was single, but the way it seemed to bleed over into the whole month, like it’s supposed to be the time of year you exalt your feelings or else feel like shit about them, made him a little resentful. Not to mention the heteronormativity of it all.

Being with Mickey, he knows there’s no need to make it a thing, and that’s one of the many reasons that they’re so fucking perfect for each other. So it’s pretty odd when February turns out to be so pivotal in their developing adult relationship. A coincidence he couldn’t have seen coming.

He’s been house-sitting for a friend of his from work that has a higher position at his company, and is a couple tax brackets above him at the least. They probably never would’ve bonded if they weren’t both gay, but Ian isn’t bothered by that fact. If Jaron wants to see him as some kind of a protégé, who is he to stop him? He’s out of town with his partner for the week, and Ian’s getting a decent sum to haul his ass to the suburbs everyday to feed and pet their two spoiled cats, Coco and Kiki, and water their indoor plants. He was also given permission to stay the night in the guest room whenever he wanted, which he planned to take advantage of over the weekend, when he didn’t prefer to be closer to his office building (and his boyfriend). There’s an alluring azure pool enclosed off the back of the house that he’s anxious to push Mickey into. Maybe they can even get naughty in the hot tub and no one will have to know.

Ian meets up with Mickey at his bar on Saturday afternoon, a duffle bag full of both their belongings clutched in his fist, and they spring for a Lyft to the ‘burbs. By the time they start passing through the swankier neighborhoods, Mickey is spouting off at the mouth with all kinds of sarcastic putdowns about the sleek houses and their inhabitants, the South Side kid at the heart of him very much alive and well. If there’s a few stars in his eyes gleaming with thoughts of all the expensive shit he could’ve jacked from this goody-two-shoes community back in the day, it’s not really his fault. Old habits die hard, and sometimes his brain still likes to case places even though he’s not actually going to act on anything. Terry had probably drilled that adaptive skill into him at an impressionable age, so that it was now second nature. He’d probably always have somewhat of a criminal mind.

Ian just sits next to him in the backseat chuckling at Mickey’s lame jokes, occasionally squeezing his thigh like he likes to do. For whatever reason, Ian seems to be obsessed with his legs. Mickey’s more a fan of Ian’s arms, if he’s being honest. His legs are skinny as fuck. Not that he’s ever said a word against them. Ian’s so weird about physical barbs, he’s liable to get a complex if Mickey teases him about his pale-ass chicken legs, and the comically large feet that sprout from the ends of them.

The redhead’s got a sort of dopey smile on his face as he looks out the window, and Mickey finally has to say something about it.

“Fuck’s up with you?” he asks.

Ian glances at him, brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“What’s with the stupid look on your face?”

Ian’s face scrunches up more. “Fuck you. I’m just… content, or whatever.”

“Content about what? I ain’t even given it up yet today.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I do get pleased about other things besides sex, believe it or not.” He pauses. “This is the first time we’ve spent the night away together. I know it’s not like a vacation, or a trip, or anything, but it’s kinda like going to a hotel or something for a special occasion, I don’t know. It’s just nice.”

Mickey snorts. “You’re such a freak. We’ve spent the night at your sister’s before. More than once.”

“That doesn’t count. That’s my childhood home, full of all my family. Not exactly an escape from the daily grind.”

Mickey shakes his head and looks back out the window. “You’re still a freak.”

“Keep talking shit, and maybe I won’t be so freaky later on, when you really want me to be.”

“Yeah right,” Mickey says laughingly. “You can’t keep off this for a full day. Nice try, though.”

It doesn’t take long for Mickey to be proved exactly right, either, because as soon as the door to Jaron’s gated home slams shut, Ian is tossing his bag to the floor and pulling Mickey against him for a passionate kiss. He doesn’t even greet the animals anxiously awaiting his arrival, before manhandling Mickey through a large living room and down a long hallway, so they can fuck in the plush guest bed he’s been looking forward to all week.

Afterward, they lightly argue about what food to order from DoorDash, and end up settling on Thai. They spread out everything on the thick glass coffee table in the TV den, and make themselves comfortable on the oversized suede couch, searching for a movie to watch on demand on the cable box. The cats hover around interestedly, and Ian has to shoo them away from their up-close inspections of the human delicacies laid out, eventually placating them with some choice cat treats.

“We should order some porn later,” Mickey says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m not gonna bill them for porn, Mickey.”

“Why not?” he asks indignantly. “You tellin’ me they can’t afford an extra $19.99 on their bill this month?”

“It’s not about that, and you know it.”

“What, you think two fags don’t watch porn anymore, cuz they settled down in a house outside the city? I bet we’d find all kindsa juicy shit if we looked through the master bedroom. Maybe even somethin’ creepy.”

Ian shook his head. “We’re not gonna go through all their shit, either. Jesus, Mick. I respect Jaron and he trusts me.”

“What the hell happened to you, Gallagher? You used to be pretty down for gettin’ wild, and now look at you. Won’t even order up a porno on some rich dude’s dime.”

“Well, I’m not fucking on their couch, either,” Ian replies. “The hot tub, on the other hand…”

Mickey raises his eyebrows and smiles all toothy the way that goes straight to Ian’s heart. “For real?”

Ian shrugs. “I mean, maybe we should finish outside of it, so we don’t get it all jizzy, but it’s probly doable. Unless we get overheated. Might pass out. But then again, the light-headed effect could be like erotic asphyxiation, and make the orgasms better. They probly come in that thing all the time.”

Mickey’s face turns into a dramatic scowl. “That is not the kinda shit you say to get me in there.”

Ian smirks. “Ever heard of bath houses? Hallmarks of gay culture and history? You think they’re all paragons of cleanliness?”

“Hey, you wanna do the time warp and go hunt down some old-school fuck palace with shower spouts and let the syphilis wash all over you, by all means. But I ain’t tryin’ to catch the hiv from your little homo cultural center.”

Ian can’t stop himself from busting up. “You really don’t wanna try fucking in the hot tub?” he asks. “Hot tub, Mick! Everybody wants to bang in a hot tub at least once in their lives. It’s not like I’m asking you to get busy with one of their used dildos.”

Mickey grimaces deeply again. “Will you please shut the fuck up? Your sexual persuasion techniques could really use some work.”

Shortly after these words, Ian snorts in amusement as a cat jumps up into Mickey’s lap, circling around a few times before settling down with audible purring. Mickey looks stiff as a board, face frozen in something between horror and confusion, which makes Ian crack up.

“The fuck?” asks Mickey.

“Looks like Kiki is into you.”

Mickey’s whole face goes through about five different expressions as Ian chuckles on. “The hell kinda gay-ass name is Kiki anyways?” he says, yet makes no move to dislodge the pet from its comfortable spot atop his thighs.

Ian even catches him discreetly stroking her fur out of the corner of his eye, and his smile deepens.

After stuffing themselves and watching a mediocre action flick, Ian goes outside to turn on the jacuzzi jets, while Mickey gets into the plentiful bar stash in the corner of the main living room, and conjures up minty cocktails that would compliment a wintery soak.

It’s snowing against the all-glass enclosure when he steps into the atrium, but Ian is already buck naked, slightly bent at the waist as he leans over and runs a hand through the steaming water of the hot tub in the lefthand corner.

“What the hell are you doin’, Gallagher?”

Ian gives him a smile over his shoulder. “Waiting for you.”

Mickey approaches and sets the drinks down on the side of the tub. “You’re gonna freeze your nuts off if you don’t get in soon.”

“Nah, I turned all the outdoor water heaters on last night, and the insulation in here is crazy good. Take off your clothes and see.”

Mickey disrobes as Ian climbs up and steps into the swirling waters.

“Oh my god,” Ian continues, moaning absurdly as he sinks down into the corner seat. “This is fucking amazing.” He closes his eyes and leans back.

Mickey vaults over the side, making a splash as he falls into the opposite side with a thud. “Holy shit,” he says, sliding down past his shoulders, the strong jets beating against his back. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Ian stretches a leg out to nudge one of Mickey’s with his toes. “Told you.”

Mickey grabs onto Ian’s foot and yanks him under the boiling water, laughing heartily when he breaks the surface sputtering.

“You fucker!” he cries, rubbing the water off of his face before he opens his eyes and shakes out his darkened red hair.

“Oops,” Mickey replies nonchalantly with a small smile, bracing himself for Ian inevitably pulling him under in retaliation.

He lets it happen, and they both laugh when he comes back up, splashing at each other a bit before retreating back to their seats. Mickey grabs the drinks, handing one to Ian, and sipping the other.

“This is the fuckin’ life,” he tells Ian, closing his eyes and resting his head back. “We need to get rich so we can have one of these.”

Ian’s eyes snap open. Mickey rarely talks about a shared future. Not too odd, since they’ve only been together about eight months now, but it’s an encouraging sign all the same. Usually, Ian’s all about living in the present, but he could envision pooling his money together with Mickey’s and making a large purchase someday, like a car, or even a home. Crazier things have been known to happen.

“That’d be nice,” he answers. “In the meantime, we could just become better friends with these guys. Get more invites over here. As long as we leave everything as we found it, I’ll probly get asked to house-sit again.”

“I’m down,” says Mickey. “As long as they don’t try to hit on us.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You’re so conceited, you know that?”

“Nah, I’m just a realist. I know all about ulterior motives. Four dudes hangin’ out in a jacuzzi? That’s just an invitation for an orgy to break out.”

Ian laughs. “You’re so dumb.” He shakes his head and takes another sip of his drink. “You ever been in one of these before?”

“Once. I was at a wedding reception at a fancy hotel with Mandy and some friends from work. We snuck in after hours with a buncha champagne. You?”

“Yeah, a few times. I should take more baths. Soaking is good for your muscles, especially after working out.”

“They got a gym room in this bitch?”

“No. He uses the gym in the office building, like I do. Don’t know about his boyfriend. They probly swim laps and shit all the time.”

“Fuck that,” says Mickey.

“Why?” Ian asks. “It’s good exercise.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Ian’s forehead crinkles and his eyes narrow. “Wait a minute… Do you not know how to swim?”

Mickey just shrugs, swigging his drink.

“Are you serious?” Ian presses. “You never learned how to swim?”

Mickey makes an adorably annoyed face at him. “Who the fuck was supposed to teach me? Terry? He’d probly just have tossed me in and let me drown if I didn’t figure it out on my own. One less mouth to feed. My mom was too damn strung out to take me anywhere outta the house.”

Ian glides through the bubbling water until he’s at Mickey’s side, taking his face in both hands. “You realize what this means, right?” Mickey just gives him a bewildered look, so Ian continues, “I’m totally gonna teach you how to swim tomorrow.”

Mickey scoffs, attempting to pull his head away. “I don’t fuckin’ think so, Michael Phelps.”

“Yes I am!” Ian trills, climbing into Mickey’s lap, arms draping over his shoulders. “It’ll be fun, I promise. I’ll think of some really interesting rewards.” He smiles all big.

“You have no credentials to be putting me in a life-threatening situation.”

Ian tilts his head back in a laugh. “God, you’re such a drama queen. You’re not gonna die. Swimming is a lot easier than it looks. In fact, if you just relax your body, you’ll float on the surface without having to do anything. It’s flailing around uselessly that’ll make you sink. The swimming part is just so you can move through the water. And for your information, I’ve taught multiple young Gallaghers how to swim. None of them died.”

Mickey’s still pretty skeptical. Learning things as an adult is exponentially more daunting than learning them as a child. At his age, Mickey figured he’d just never try to do it. He’s never really felt like he was missing out on anything by being land-bound forever.

“Are you gonna get off my back about it if I say no?”

“Doubt it.”

Mickey sighs. “Fine. You can try to teach me, but if you suck, I’m gonna give up, and you can’t gimme shit for it.” He points his finger right in Ian’s face. “And I ain’t usin’ any fuckin’ floaties either.”

Ian chuckles. “Deal.” He knocks his forehead against Mickey’s. “Now, about those hot tub plans…”

Mickey’s eyebrows arch high. “You really wanna go through with that? We’re gonna pass out and get boiled alive like lobsters. Plus, water makes for some shitty-ass lubricant.”

Ian’s head falls into Mickey’s neck with a groan. “God, you’re such a spoilsport.” He raises his face again. “Fine, let’s just make out or something, and then I’ll fuck you in the guest room again.”

Mickey grins. “Deal.”

They make out until they get light-headed, hands wandering and stimulating until they’re beyond pruny, and Ian heaves Mickey up out of the water, smacking his ass as he hops out of the tub.

“Lemme shut this thing down,” he says as he follows him out, grabbing their towels and tossing Mickey one. “Will you take our glasses inside and sit ‘em in the sink? We can wash everything tomorrow.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

“If you wanna get lubed up while you’re waiting for me to do all the cat shit, please feel free,” he adds.

Mickey jiggles his ass at him as he walks to the sliding glass door, and Ian titters, annoyed with his boner as he dries off.

  


They awaken extra-sated, with two cats laying at their covered feet, and loll around in bed after a pair of morning blowjobs. Around midday, Ian heats up the Thai leftovers, and they eat in front of the TV again. Once Ian’s put the guest sheets in the washer and cleaned the dishes and the coffee table, he prods Mickey to the pool.

“Ready for your swimming lesson?”

“Hell no,” Mickey answers, shaking his head. “But let’s get it the fuck over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” laughs Ian.

They change into the swim shorts that Ian brought for both of them. He had an old pair jammed into the back of his underwear drawer at home. Out in the atrium, it’s bizarre to be beneath the icy rain falling against the glass above them in the daylight, as they wade into the shallow end of the heated pool. The dichotomy is interesting nonetheless.

“I’ve gotta be the first person in Chicago to decide to learn how to swim in the middle of fuckin’ February,” Mickey grouses.

“It’s so cool,” Ian says wondrously, gazing around at the frigid atmosphere just on the other side of the enclosure. “Wouldn’t mind being snowed in here when that shitty polar vortex thing sweeps through next week.”

“We’re gonna crank the heat and combine all the blankets we own and never leave the bed, Firecrotch.”

“I’m gonna have to get some work done from home, babe.”

Mickey shrugs. “So? Your laptop fits in the bed with us, don’t it?”

“Oh, like you’re not gonna try and distract me with your dick? And what’ll you be doing while I’m working? Annoying me with the TV in the background?”

“I’ll read a book, bitch. Won’t make a peep.”

Another rush of delight courses through Ian, so unexpectedly pleased at Mickey wanting to plan to be snowed in with him indefinitely and do mundane, domestic things side-by-side. Such a random thing to get so excited about, but these little moments of clarity have been seeping into Ian’s brain lately, infusing him with a kind of hopefulness he hasn’t had in a long time.

“Alright,” he says, snapping out of his reverie, “enough talking. Come to papa.” He makes a splashy motion toward his chest.

“‘Ey! What’d I say about that shit,” Mickey chastises with a pointy finger. “Don’t make this weird, or I’ll get out right fuckin’ now.”

Ian chortles. “Alright, first thing’s first… let’s do the floating thing I told you about. Take away your fear of the deep end.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, huffing and looking away obstinately. “What the hell do I have to do?”

“Just watch me, I guess.”

Ian leans backward into the water and kicks his legs up to the surface, so that he’s flat on his back, staring up at the frozen glass high above.

“See? Buoyant.”

He glances over as Mickey leans back to copy him, then flails and immediately sinks. He pops up on his feet seconds later, blowing water away from his face, hair plastered against his forehead down to his eyes.

“Fuck, Ian! This sucks!”

Ian does his best to hold in his laughter, knowing that Mickey will get pissed really quickly if he thinks Ian is making fun of him in a vulnerable state. He gets back on his feet and takes Mickey by the waist.

“Let me help you.”

Mickey eyes him warily. “This is a stupid idea.”

“No it’s not,” Ian gently coaxes. “Just trust me. I won’t let you go under.”

“Better fuckin’ not.”

“Alright, lean back again, onto my arm, and then lift your legs up, and I’ll grab them.” He waits for Mickey to follow his instructions. “Good. Okay, now just straighten out so you’re flat on the surface. Don’t paddle or anything, just keep your whole body straight.”

Mickey snorts. “Ain’t nothin’ straight about me, gingerbread, you know this by now.”

Ian chuckles and lets Mickey float a while with the support of his forearms, then slyly takes one away, then the other, letting Mickey float freely with his eyes closed. After a couple minutes go by, he informs him, “You’re doing it.”

Mickey’s eyes snap open, and he almost panics, but Ian holds him again.

“Relax. You’re fine.”

“Alright, I’m good with this. I’ll just be a floater.”

Ian snickers. “Thrilling as drifting on the surface is, swimming is funner. This was just to get you comfortable.”

“Wouldn’t say I’m comfortable, just vaguely okay… ish.”

“Come on, Mick. It’ll be easy. I just have to show you how to flap your arms and kick your feet. You can at least get a good doggy paddle going.”

“Doggy style?” jokes Mickey, sticking out his tongue. “Mastered that a long time ago.”

“Har har. Stand up, so we can get this show on the road.”

“Fine. Show me the dumbass arm flapping.”

Ian patiently shows him how to do the basics, trying his very best not to sound condescending, or like he’s teaching a child, even as Mickey continues bristling over Ian hovering his arms around him as he’s trying stuff out.

“You want me to let you drown or not, asshole?” Ian finally bleats.

“Fuck off,” says Mickey, splashing him away.

He pushes himself off into the deep end without Ian’s assistance, swinging his arms in the wide motions he was shown, from straight out in front of his head, down to his sides, kicking his feet up toward the surface clumsily with his knees, and bringing his arms back together in front of him. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the ledge with the number 8 on a tile below it. Then he stays there, clinging to it, and smiles at Ian widely.

Ian smiles back. “See? Not as hard as you’d built it up to be, right?”

Mickey wipes a hand down his face. “Never gonna be an Olympian or anything, but this ain’t so bad.”

He makes his way back toward Ian with his head rigidly held above the water and facing forward as he does his bastardized breaststroke, accompanied by little dolphin kicks. He looks fucking adorable, in Ian’s eyes, and when Mickey reaches him where he’s standing in the shallow end, his blue eyes are shining and his face is lit up like a little kid. He even lets out an honest to god giggle.

“This is pretty fun,” Mickey concedes at last, paddling nearby.

Ian’s grin is stretched wide across his face as he rotates along with the circles Mickey starts swimming around him. He’s not sure he’s ever seen him looking so carefree. It feels almost like he’s giving Mickey a piece of childhood he should’ve gotten a long time ago. He just looks so fucking… happy.

Ian instinctually reaches out to wrap his arms around Mickey’s middle, pulling him over and against his body. The words he speaks next come out completely of their own accord, and without absolutely any forethought.

“I love you.”

Time seems to halt altogether, like they’re stuck in the freeze-frame of a paused movie, staring at each other with unbelievably huge doe eyes. The seconds that tick by feel like consecutive lifetimes, and the high ringing sound of tinnitus dulls out all other noise, like a station test pattern interrupting their regularly scheduled programming.

Once too much silence has effectively gotten under his skin, Ian takes off to the other end of the pool, diving below the surface and gliding underwater. It’s extremely awkward in its abruptness, and he feels like an idiot when he reaches the wall, but he just keeps swimming around the deep end in small laps, ignoring everything that just happened.

Mickey just sort of stands there dumbly, not really knowing how to react. Ian just told him that he loves him. For the first time. And he was caught completely by surprise. He’d figured it would happen someday, since they kept getting closer and closer, with no signs of getting sick of each other. He just didn’t think it’d be now. And he didn’t think he’d say _nothing_ in return. But honestly, he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if he’s ready for all that. Doesn’t know exactly what it is he actually feels. He likes Ian, of course. Likes him more than he’s ever liked anyone. That had probably always been true, even when they were stupid-ass teenagers with angsty feelings coming out of their asses. But love? He doesn’t really know anything about that.

Ian obviously expected some kind of reaction, and now he’s just being weird. This whole thing just spun right out of everyone’s control, and there’s no going back to _before_.

Mickey gets his shit together enough to half-ass swim toward Ian, but by the time he gets there, Ian’s taken off in the other direction.

Great. This can’t possibly turn into some sort of strange fight, can it?

He swims back to the shallow end, and latches onto Ian’s arm before he can take off again.

“Wanna take a chill pill?” is what he says, which is probably not the best thing to open with, but he just needs Ian to act fucking normal right now, so Mickey can get his bearings.

Ian’s heart sinks, knowing that he just fucked everything all to hell.

“I’m fine,” he replies in a very not-fine tone of voice. “Good job. You’re a natural in the water. Really.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You’re a good teacher.” He can see the elephant in the room doing a little circus dance right next to the pool, but he still doesn’t know how to address it. “Don’t freak out.” He cringes a little at the directive. Or the _in_ directive, as it were.

Ian wrenches his arm from Mickey’s grip. “I’m not freaking out.”

Ian is definitely freaking out, but he really doesn’t want to make some kind of a scene. It’ll only make things worse, so he just keeps swimming around the pool, hoping Mickey will just drop it and keep swimming with him. It really sucks that they’re not laughing anymore, though. All the lightheartedness from earlier was just annihilated by Ian’s stupid mouth, which didn’t appear to be attached to his stupid brain.

Mickey watches Ian out of the corner of his eye, less confident about being in the pool with each passing minute. Being distracted while this is all so new to him is probably a recipe for disaster. Ian might not even notice him if something went wrong, because he’s studiously avoiding looking at Mickey at all.

Not how they thought the weekend would conclude.

Their heady time in the pool comes to a swift end from there, and Ian finishes taking care of all the chores that need to be done before they can leave, as Mickey retreats back to the den and kinda sorta watches some old sitcom he’s not even a fan of, petting the calico cat that’s become his fast feline friend. Once the guest bedclothes are dry, the dishes put away, the atrium heaters turned off, the litter box scooped, and Coco and Kiki fed, Ian orders another Lyft for them to get back to their part of the city.

As soon as they pull up in front of Mickey’s building, Ian makes a hasty excuse as to why he needs to just continue on home for the night right then and there. Before Mickey can put up much of a fight, or insist he come up for at least a bit so they can talk, Ian is all but pushing him out the car door.

“You’re really not staying over?” he asks, leaning in from the curb.

Ian shakes his head, sliding into the spot Mickey had just occupied. “Gotta put the finishing touches on something I have due tomorrow before lunch. I’ll call you after work.”

Mickey leans down farther and kisses him on the cheek. “Okay. Bye, I guess.”

“Bye.”

The car takes off again as soon as the door is closed, and Mickey watches it speed down the block for a minute, before turning toward his building with a big-ass sigh.

He’d really fucked that up.

  


Ian’s not actively avoiding Mickey, or at least that’s what he tells himself in the following days. He really does have things he needs to get done, in terms of work, and his apartment, and seeing his family, and he really should be getting some alone time on occasion, because it’s probably healthy not to be attached to his boyfriend’s hip 24/7, like they have been recently. He tells himself there’s nothing wrong, and that he’s not experiencing any issues related to randomly blurting out really important, milestone type declarations to an unsuspecting Milkovich.

Ian had been caught equally by surprise when those three little words had brazenly tumbled past the security of his lips. It wasn’t like he’d planned their escape. He couldn’t even say they’d been on his mind at any time leading up to their being spoken. It was like a trigger had gone off without any warning, and the misfired bullet had ricocheted and hit them both like innocent bystanders of Ian’s subconscious truth.

It’s just that Mickey had never looked so fucking happy and adorable in all his life than he had swimming in that pool, even when he was just a small kid playing ball in Little League. Ian couldn’t help but be intoxicated by the sight of soft, sweet Mickey having simple fun, his face lit up with delight. It had just hit him like a cliched lightning bolt: ‘ _I love him_.’ And so he’d just said it… right as he’d realized it. And Mickey had said nothing in return.

He can’t blame him for that, really. It’s not like anyone is owed an ‘I love you’ back just because they say it to someone first. And he’d much rather not be lied to either. He wouldn’t want anyone, especially Mickey, to say it out of obligation and not actually mean it. Silence was a better option if the feelings weren’t reciprocated. It was kinder in the long run. And who’s to say that they need to be on the exact same page with their feelings yet? Maybe Ian’s feelings are a little stronger now, and Mickey’s will catch up later. There’s nothing wrong with that. Probably happens all the time. And if he never says it, then he never says it. Ian could be okay with that.

Right?

Okay, so maybe Ian isn’t entirely ready to face Mickey and have to dissect it all. Putting a little bit of space between them for now feels like the better option. It’ll give him time to calm down and get over it. And then he can just tell Mickey straight-up that he doesn’t expect anything from him. The last thing he wants is for him to feel pressured or overwhelmed.

Ian doesn’t want to be _too much_.

By the third day of staying in and not inviting Mickey to join him, he starts to feel guilty. He knows he’s being some form of passive aggressive, but knowing it doesn’t exactly help him resolve it. All it really does is make him understand he’s being stupid, and make him feel like an even bigger asshole.

Barely half an hour after sending Mickey another generic blow-off text about being really busy, Ian hears an unexpected knock on his front door. He braces himself, knowing it’s most likely his boyfriend, and removes the laptop from his lap, setting it down on the coffee table along with his legal pad and pen, as he gets up from the couch. A peek through the peephole confirms his guess when the top of Mickey’s head comes into view, a hand on his hip as he waits in the hallway in full winter garb.

Ian still somehow manages to sound surprised when he opens the door. “Hey! What’re you doing here?”

Mickey’s brow furrows in that deep inimitable way of his. He can’t believe the audacity of Ian acting like he has no idea why Mickey would possibly show up without an invitation when he’s been clearly ignored for days on end by the one person who always seemed to want to be around him on days that ended in Y.

“You fuckin’ serious right now?” he asks his idiot of a boyfriend.

Ian looks the part, even, with his big mouth slightly agape, wash-worn lounging clothes rumpled, and a general air of mystification hanging around him like an almost tangible thing. He even stammers his reply like a goober, “I—You—I mean—I guess—Come in?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and pushes past Ian, unzipping his puffy coat, then dropping it to the floor. He unravels his scarf, adding it to the pile with his beanie, then unlacing his shoes and shimmying them off so he doesn’t track water around the apartment, even though he is kind of pissed, and he probably shouldn’t care about trivial things like the hardwood floors.

He takes in the state of the coffee table, noting that Ian at least hadn’t been completely fabricating the whole excuse about working after hours. He did appear to be doing boring-ass account shit that was of no interest to Mickey at all. Still… Ian had been busy with stuff that had nothing to do with him before, yet still managed to find ways to bring him around, so none of this actually added up to the sum of a reasonable excuse anyway.

Mickey turns to face Ian again, and finds him still dawdling in the entryway, gazing at nothing in particular.

“You really gonna keep actin’ totally weird with me?” Mickey inquires. “What the fuck, Ian?”

The redhead sighs and finally moves forward from the foyer, taking a seat on the far end of the couch. “You already know what, Mickey,” he replies without looking at him.

“Yeah, I do know… sorta. But you need to explain to me why you’re makin’ such a big deal outta—what you said.”

“I really gotta explain that?” Ian says pointedly, meeting his eye at last.

“Yeah. You kinda do actually.”

Ian sighs again, even more heavily, so put-upon when prompted to describe his actions and feelings to the person he’s supposedly grown so close to. “Isn’t it self-explanatory? I said—what I said—and I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. But obviously, I meant it. And now I’m nervous. I don’t want you to leave me just cuz my feelings are too strong, or… you know, stronger than yours are right now, or whatever.”

“Ian, I—”

“And _please_! Don’t say it back now! I don’t want you to say it back until you’re ready. Until you really mean it. If you ever are, or do. I’m fine with that. I just… don’t break up with me because I said it too soon, or before you were ready to hear it, or whatever the fucking case may be. I just don’t want you to overthink my feelings for you.”

“Because you clearly haven’t been overthinking them yourself for the past three days?” Mickey teases.

“Fuck you,” Ian answers with the tiniest hint of upturned lips.

It’s Mickey’s turn for a dramatic sigh, and he throws himself down onto the couch next to Ian. “Look… it’s pretty simple really, on my end… I’ve just never told anyone that before. Like… no one. May’ve said it to Mandy a few times during some difficult shit, but other than that, I can’t think of a single fuckin’ instance I ever felt like sayin’ that shit. To anyone. Ever. I don’t really know how to—all I can really say right now, and you should already know by now—is that you mean more to me than anybody else ever has.”

Ian’s eyes get suspiciously glassy, but Mickey doesn’t look away. “Really?”

“Course,” Mickey nods. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. So don’t push me away. That’s a pussy-ass move, Gallagher.”

Ian chuckles despite himself. “I wasn’t pushing you away. It was just self-defense. I guess I was a little embarrassed. Thought maybe you’d run away from me, so I did it first.”

“If you think you’re gettin’ rid of me before that bitch-ass polar vortex comes through, you’re outta your damn mind. I ain’t ridin’ that shit out solo. Need your extra body heat.”

Ian snorts. “Oh, I get it. As soon as I see you through warm and safe through the chilliest winter, my ass is grass, huh?”

Mickey shrugs. “Haven’t decided yet. Let’s see how the cookie crumbles.”

Ian gasps dramatically, fisting a throw pillow and swinging it at Mickey’s face. The action sets off an inevitable chain of rough-housing, making out, dry humping, then full-on banging on the sofa.

Make-up sex is always the fucking hottest.

  


They’ve gone a little overboard in their winter apocalypse preparations. People have been freaking out about the imminent _‘Storm of the Century’_ even in a place like Chicago that’s plenty used to freezing temperatures. Mickey has been getting super snippy with Ian over the latter’s newfound obsession with The Weather Channel and the ridiculous anchors standing around outdoors being blown around by strong winds, with only their squinty eyes peeking out from their balaclavas and fur-trimmed parkas, as they travel from place to place where the worst conditions are already present.

“Holy shit, Ian, you’ve told me stories about almost freezing to death with pneumonia on the curb with your siblings, cuz your crackhead parents left you to your own fuckin’ devices in mid-January when you were like three, and you think you’re gonna die of hypothermia now, as a grown man, inside this stockpiled fortress you’ve created? Turn that shit off, ‘fore I punch your teeth in for bein’ a pansy-ass loser.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but switches the channel over to some mindless comedy they don’t have to pay attention to. He has kind of turned Mickey’s apartment into a cozy nest of warmth and fun, stuffed to the gills with healthy non-perishables, a large portion of which Mickey has turned his nose up at.

“Maybe I’d be fine, but without my worrying, you could be at risk for being underprepared, cuz you’re so fucking stubborn. You could be one of those morons they find frozen to death in their own home after the fact, and the headline would read, _‘Big Tough Man Thought He Knew Better Than All The Meteorologists Issuing Strong Warnings On Television For The Last Two Weeks_.’”

Mickey throws him a middle finger. “Your headlines need major editing, dipshit.”

Ian smiles. “Didn’t say I was wrong though, did you?”

“Keep it up and I’ll send you packin’. I’m surprised you’re not all up Fiona’s ass at the old house anyway. I’m sure they could use your self-proclaimed expertise more than I could.”

“I’ve got that covered too. Making a final check-in over there after work tomorrow, before I come back here to hunker down for the long haul.”

“ _If_ I let you, so just rein it in, Captain America.”

Despite Mickey’s teasing, they had talked plenty about the best plan of action for the harsh storm forecasted to affect the city for at least a week, and decided on Mickey’s place rather than Ian’s, because past experience had proven the electrical grid to be stronger and more reliable there, even though Ian’s building was newer. And still, Ian had purchased materials to reinforce the insulation of all the windows.

With Ian more than on top of all the necessities, all Mickey really had to do was make sure everything was well-secured at the bar, which would be closed for at least a handful of days, and that there was enough beer and liquor in the house for them to have fun while waiting out the arctic windchill of 60º below. He was also in charge of the lube and the weed, so as long as those levels were good, all systems were go as far as he was concerned.

Ian joins him the night before temperatures are expected to suddenly drop, with yet another big brown shopping bag in his gloved hand, a pleased smile adorning his rosy face beneath the layers he strips away from his head and neck.

“The hell else did you get? Thought you already picked over every mart in the metropolitan area,” Mickey sasses, getting a face full of Ian’s wet outerwear as it’s tossed at him.

“I got us something fun, jackass. Although, it will require us not to lose power if we’re gonna get extended enjoyment out of it. I figure we’ll have a couple days at least before that maybe happens.”

Mickey kicks Ian’s discarded clothes away with his grandpa slippers and lifts his eyebrows in question, following Ian to the living room where he sets the bag on the table.

“I was walking by this vintage game store near work, and saw this in the window. Couldn’t resist.” He pulls out an original Super Nintendo in its original box. “Ta-da!”

Mickey’s eyebrows do another little jump, a genuine smile pulled forth. “Holy shit, fuckin’ SNES?”

“Hell yeah. Monica got us one of these one Christmas when she was all manic and opening scam credit cards left and right. We only had the _Super Mario World_ cartridge and _Mortal Kombat II_. Played that shit out for like six years until Carl broke the console by pissing all over it.” Ian pulls both of the aforementioned games out of the bag next. “Booyah, bitch!”

Mickey snorts. “Booyah? Damn, we are on our nineties nostalgia today.”

“Finally gonna beat your ass at some video games.”

“Don’t gloat prematurely, freckles, I used to kick all the other kids off that thing and play against Iggy over at the community center for like two years straight. Can hold my fuckin’ own.”

“Bring it on,” Ian taunts.

“Enough.” Mickey rolls his eyes, but eagerly gets to hooking the thing up to his television, while Ian disappears into the bedroom.

Ian reappears a few minutes later in lounging clothes, a fresh hoodie, and thick socks. “I’m kinda hungry. You think there’s any delivery still open, or should I make something?”

“Already took care of it. Check the fridge.”

Ian is delighted to find Chinese takeout boxes in a plastic bag on the top shelf. “Fuck yeah.”

He sets it out on the kitchen counter and peeks in the other bags sitting there, snickering at Mickey’s contributions to their shut-in pantry. He fills up a large plate with his favorite Chinese dishes, sticks it in the microwave for 3 minutes, and shuffles back to the living room.

“Frosted Strawberry Pop-Tarts, Fruit Punch Kool-Aid, and Cheddar Goldfish? Looks like I’m not the only one taking it back to elementary school.”

“If I have to put up with your weird, tasteless granola and quinoa shit, unsalted nuts, and dried fruit, I’m gonna be throwin’ in some classics to balance the tastebud scales. And I can’t drink ten gallons of water without some kinda additive.”

“Yeah, nothing like dumping one part dyed sugar into three parts still water. Whatever, I mounted that pull-up bar in your doorway for a reason.”

“Go eat your cheap, nuked, MSG rice and get out of my face, please. Thank you.”

Ian laughs and sits back, waiting for the tell-tale beeping to start. “You want me to fix you a plate yet?”

“Nah, gonna get high first.”

Ian reaches for Mickey’s head where he sits on the floor, running his fingers through his dark hair, and giving it a small shove. “You’re such a wild teen. I don’t know how I’m gonna contain you.”

“Stop creepin’ on me, creeper.”

  


The next few days are spent in a haze of pot smoke, munchies, and old-school video game matches, with intermittent breaks for sleeping and/or fooling around, and for Ian to work on his laptop while Mickey replies to emails and texts about his business, or reads one of the two books he currently has in rotation.

By the fourth morning, they’ve lost cable and wi-fi, but the electricity is still going strong. They’ve defeated Bowser and rescued the princess in _Super Mario_ 1 and 3, and gotten through most of the map of _Mario World_ , with a few hard-to-win levels in the last couple of worlds still in play. Mickey has long abandoned being relegated to Luigi waiting to beat the same levels Ian’s already played, and they’ve been trading off tries with Mario as a single player. They’ve torn through the entire cache of Pop-Tarts, and are now elbow-deep in a giant bag of off-brand cheese puffs Mickey had stashed away from Ian’s judgey eyes in a cabinet over the fridge that almost never gets opened by anyone. (There may or may not have also been a stash of Little Debbie snack products, including Swiss Rolls, Zebra Cakes, and Oatmeal Creme Pies. Ian refuses to admit he tore through two of each in one morning.)

They give up on _Mario World_ for now, and switch back to one-on-one _Mortal Kombat_ fight matches, occasionally consulting their saved online cheat sheet of signature moves and fatalities in order to ramp-up the bloody ass-kickings. Ian’s throwing back ginger ales as much as Mickey’s throwing back Cokes, and they’re pretty evenly matched within the game, the shit-talking flying around freely without instigating any actual altercations, which is a minor miracle given how hard they’ve been competing.

“I’m gonna fuck you up so bad,” Ian taunts, hitting him with Scorpion’s special moves over and over again in rapid succession, pulling Mickey’s Raiden toward him with a spear, barraging him with fists and kicks, then teleporting and landing blows with his sword. Mickey manages to generate a few stray lightning bolts to zap him with, but can never gain a real foothold before Ian corners him again.

“Finish him!” the deep, sinister referee voice directs, and Ian complies with the fast clicking sequence of a body-slicing fatality, then raises his buff arms in triumph, grunting in a manly fashion. “Scorpion wins.”

Mickey should be getting fed up at these immature antics at this point, but for whatever reason he’s deeply amused instead. Usually, he gets pissy when he loses so decidedly against bragging opponents. He’s thrown punches and busted kneecaps for less, yet Ian’s jubilant crowing is somehow endearing.

In fact, he continues his losing streak against his overzealous boyfriend for three more matches, the competitive heat in him cooling considerably, and he doesn’t even have much in the way of comebacks to Ian’s increasing boasts of superiority or slams about Mickey’s inferiority. It’s like the thirst for blood that usually accompanies taking a licking has been replaced with sunshine and roses and syrupy fondness secreting from all of his pores.

Ian even gets up and does a purposely hokey little victory dance, tossing the controller at Mickey’s feet and humping his crotch in the general direction of his head.

“Let’s get back to _Mario World_ , I fuckin’ got this now, I know it!” Ian preens, grabbing a handful of cheese puffs, cramming them into his mouth, then throwing a couple at Mickey’s face as he plops himself back down.

He gets through the final castle's Front Door level on the second try this time, finally chucking Bowser out of the stupid Koopa Clown Car, then goes back to the Special World to take on the hardest additional levels that have really been kicking their asses for the better part of the last 24 hours.

“I know what to do,” he says again, slightly crazed in manner and appearance. “I’m in the goddamn zone.”

Mickey leans back, crossing his feet, and grinning as he takes a hit of weed and watches Ian’s intense throttling of cartoon enemies on the screen. He wonders what it would’ve been like if he’d been able to play with Ian like this when they were kids. He’d probably have given Ian a bloody nose, but Ian was always feistier than he looked, so maybe he would’ve busted Mickey up right back.

“Holy shit, I’m almost there!” Ian exclaims excitedly, pushing buttons harder and faster, his tongue peeking out just a little as he shimmies his body and arms along with the game frame as Mario and Yoshi move forward. “Miiiick… Mick! I’m doin’ this shit!”

“You’re doin’ it,” Mickey encourages, feeling delightfully lightheaded.

Less than 30 seconds go by before Ian tosses the controller down again, whooping at his win, clapping loudly and briskly. Mickey stares at his handsome profile, filled to the brim with ecstatic energy he can’t quite determine the source of. All he knows is that Ian is the best… even at his most annoying and least sexually desirable, he’s still the best.

Ian notices that Mickey is unusually quiet, and glances over in concern. “What’s up with you?”

He has a kind of goofy look on his face, if he’s being honest. Maybe he just got too high and stopped caring about the video games. Maybe Ian got so cocky with his winning streak that it’s turned him off the whole Nintendo thing.

“What?” Ian asks again.

Mickey blinks slowly, a bright smile gradually blooming. “I love you.”

Ian’s head physically recoils back on his neck. “What?” he repeats.

“You heard me.”

Ian’s head bows as he wilts. “Mick, I told you that you don’t need to say it back just because I said it first.”

“That’s not why I said it. I just kinda get it now. I know it for a fact. I love you. You’re a stupid-ass, dorky, big-headed, motherfucking nerd, and I still think you’re the best thing on this shitty planet. I love everything about you.”

Ian looks at him like he’s lost his mind, and Mickey nods emphatically.

“Really?” Ian’s voice sounds as childlike as his attitude has been all afternoon.

“No, not really,” Mickey deadpans while nodding again, a little smirk resurfacing. “Would I lie about this?”

Ian shakes his head, beaming and surging forward to tackle Mickey to the floor, kissing him all over his face, then pulling back to look him in the eye. “You’re my favorite person too. I love you.”

Ian kisses him again, sinking closer when Mickey opens his legs, slotting right in between them. He’s not sure what got into Mickey to make him suddenly realize the depth of his feelings, but he’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth either. Maybe it’s a byproduct of being trapped inside their overheated bubble for days on end without stepping a single foot out into the real world. Maybe they’re a little euphoric from all the junk food and nostalgia and weed. Maybe it’s a strain of Stockholm syndrome borne of isolation and reclusiveness. But Mickey would never take it back. And he wouldn’t suddenly spout sonnets that didn’t come from the heart. Intellectually, Ian had known deep down for a while now that Mickey loves him, but he also realizes now that he really did crave that confirmation. All his senses needed to register it as an emotion from the man himself. And now that Ian had it, he wouldn’t have to hold back from openly expressing it to Mickey any longer. They could just say it… whenever and wherever they wanted to.

Their kissing gets more intense, and Mickey's engine really gets going when Ian holds his wrists down against the floor above his head. He doesn’t know when Ian’s big hands gripping him purposely became a kink, but it must’ve somewhere along the way. Ian’s probably the only man in the world Mickey would ever feel comfortable giving up dominance to.

One heavy swipe of the tongue has him moaning and rutting up into Ian as their erections begin to form inside their sweatpants. He pushes lightly against the grip on his wrists, gasping with arousal when Ian presses down harder. His brain starts switching off its normal functions, toggling over to the foggy, primal operations of surrender. Since he can’t use his hands, he wraps one leg around Ian’s calf, opening his mouth wider as they devour each other.

Ian slides his clothed dick against one side of Mickey’s, the blood now filling them both up fully so that they strain inside the fabric. The barrier of their clothes gets him hotter, like he wouldn’t mind middle-schooling it with Mickey right here on the hard living room floor until they both come in their pants.

On the other hand, they could probably do better than that after such a monumental expression of feeling and intent. Much, much better.

Ian’s hands trail from Mickey’s wrists to his biceps, down to his underarms, then up his neck, until he’s cupping his face, groaning into their kiss as Mickey wraps his arms tightly around Ian’s back.

“Let’s go get in bed,” he says breathily, leaning away.

Mickey nods in agreement and Ian helps him up, pulling him along by the hand. They watch each other as they lose their clothes, a slight chill hitting their naked skin, even as the heater rumbles in the background.

“Covers?” asks Mickey.

Ian nods. “Covers.”

They roll them back and jump in, snuggling down as they cover up.

Ian giggles with a small chatter of his teeth as a shiver runs up his spine. He turns into Mickey as he takes him in an embrace, and they entwine their legs and rub each other’s arms.

“Polar Vortex has been pretty amazing,” Ian says.

“It’s been okay.”

“Kinda don’t want it to end.”

Mickey shrugs. “I bet we have a couple more days. Could always make up some kind of emergency if work tries to get us back too soon.”

“I suppose. Gonna miss you when it’s over.”

“Don’t gotta miss me right now, copperhead.” Mickey reaches down to stroke Ian’s shaft. “Just gotta fuck me with this big cock.”

Ian chuckles, groping Mickey’s ass fat. “Think that can be arranged.”

Their mouths come together again in their familiar dance, soft and wet, perfectly in sync. Ian sighs into the kiss, as his hand slips around to fondle Mickey’s balls, occasionally moving upward to slide over the underside of his dick.

“Fuck,” Mickey rasps, exhaling in annoyance. “It’s warm under here and I didn't grab the provisions first.”

Ian smirks. “You’re in charge of the lube.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. It’s just over on the nightstand, but it’s too fuckin’ far right now.”

“Well, unless you really want a bareback spit ride, you need to suck it up and crawl over there. I promise to warm you back up.”

“I take back what I said before,” Mickey deadpans. “I hate you.”

Ian wrinkles his nose. “That was a quick retraction. Especially for such a minor inconvenience.”

Mickey huffs and obnoxiously throws the covers off both their bodies, rolling and diving toward the nightstand. Ian lets out a little squeal at the unexpected cold, and reaches for the blankets at his feet, bringing them in closely up over his shoulders, scrunching his body up in an attempt to stem the chill. Mickey rolls back toward him and attempts to pry Ian’s iron grip from the sheets, so he can get back under them.

“‘Ey, you fucker, let me the hell back in.”

“That’s what you get,” Ian says, dramatically stuttering like he’s freezing.

Mickey gets up on his knees and goes for Ian’s stomach with tickle fingers, which makes Ian laugh, mostly just because of how ridiculous Mickey’s naked form looks fighting with him while his hard-on bounces around angrily. It also sort of tickles, but it’s mostly painful, because Mickey does it too roughly.

He relaxes his grip on the covers, and Mickey climbs back into the warmth, his teeth now clacking comically as he punches Ian on the shoulder.

“You’re a fuckin’ dick. Shouldn’t even let you get on this now.”

“You can’t resist this dick and you know it. C’mere.”

They start kissing again, and Mickey harshly presses the lube and condom into Ian’s chest, letting them fall from his hand. Ian smiles into the kiss, pulling back with a cocked eyebrow.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Shut up and get on me.”

He rolls onto his back and waits for Ian to rearrange himself, all underneath the cover of their multiple blankets. As soon as they find a comfortable position with Ian back between his legs, he hears the lube pop open and feels a wandering hand come down to play with his hole. They’ve been having enough sex while waiting out the storm to make prep time short and sweet, and honestly the thought of blowjobs and the like just sounds way too complicated right now. All Mickey wants is to get to the main attraction, and it seems like Ian is totally on board with that plan. He knows how to read Mickey’s wants and needs by now. It’s a little eerie.

Mickey still gasps a little when the cold, slick finger breaches him, and Ian’s big mouth swallows it up, kissing hard and intense as he works him open almost leisurely, his hand steady and sure.

He isn’t at it for long, before he slips out, fumbling under the sheets with the condom and applying more lube to it once it’s on. Mickey’s not even sure where the wrapper goes, but he doesn’t give a shit right now.

Ian’s arms cage him in as he leans in close, getting his lower body into position. Mickey shifts his legs, bending his knees further up so that his thick thighs press into Ian’s waist, then reaches down to guide his favorite cock into his hungry ass. He gasps again as he’s stretched wider, and normally he would close his eyes right about now, but instead he gazes deeply into Ian’s bright green eyes, mouth falling open in a silent sort of surprise. It’s always a little amusing to him how long it takes for Ian to fully penetrate him at the beginning. For one, Ian is big, but he’s also so generous and polite that he takes his time, so careful of not hurting him. It’s sweet really. Mickey really fucking lucked out when he met this idiot… when he was just a scrappy, moony-eyed kid, desperate for affection in all the wrong places, one of them being Mickey’s dirty, beaten-down arms. And he lucked out even more running into him again, in a city of millions, miles away from their old stomping grounds.

He’s the luckiest version of himself, because now maybe… _maybe_ … he won’t ever have to go it alone again. If they love each other, and he’s pretty sure that they really do, then they may be built to stand the test of time. Nothing is really holding them back from having whatever they want to have. _Miles and miles away_ from their haunted South Side trappings.

Ian looks into Mickey’s true blue eyes as he rocks himself gingerly inside, deeper and deeper until he’s completely buried, his dick hard, but his heart soft. They don’t usually stare at each other like this, but maybe they’re both a little in awe of how far they’ve come, and how profound their connection is now. He stares into Mickey’s eyes and wraps his hands around his head, thumbs caressing underneath his chin, pondering how bottomless his well of passion for him really is. He expresses it by mouthing at Mickey’s lips once more, and starts to fuck him with powerful, yet measured thrusts, letting his coherent thoughts ebb away into the sea of yearning.

He feels Mickey’s nails rake across his back as he kicks up the pace a notch, moaning when he feels hands squeezing encouragingly at his ass, staying right there, hugging him tightly to that delicious spot. God, he loves the way Mickey takes it. Never wants to give it to anybody else again. No one’s ever fucked him like Mickey has, and he thinks it’s fair to say he’s never fucked anyone the same way either. In here, like this, they are perfect. Perfect and pure. Usually it’s all just primal urges flying around and crashing into one another. It’s usually just great sex. But this time… this time, there’s a palpable air of tenderness. It’s making Ian’s heart race faster than it normally does when they’re going at it. Maybe it’s that newfound knowledge.

Mickey loves him. He loves Mickey. They love each other.

It’s so fucking obvious now, like _maybe_ it’s always been true. It’s possible they didn’t have the language to describe it before, or didn’t have the balls to admit it, or perhaps both. But none of that matters now. It is known. It’s been spoken. It can’t be unknown or unspoken now. All they can do is keep knowing it and keep saying it. And they can keep showing it.

He licks against Mickey’s tongue and pries his lips away, breathing heavily as he smooths his hands down from Mickey’s face, over his torso, and takes hold of his hips. He gains better purchase on his knees, pleased when Mickey hikes his legs up farther and rocks his ass up higher, his arms moving back up to grip the back of Ian’s broad shoulders. He doesn’t think Mickey’s ever felt better around him or beneath him. Everything is so tight, and soft, and warm, Ian could die happy right this second and wouldn't mind.

God, Mickey loves getting fucked by Ian. He’s not just a pretty face with big cock and an attentive manner. He’s a full-bodied sentient machine. Mickey loves the coarseness of Ian's body hair against his skin, and the way his sweat darkens the red hair on his head as it falls across his forehead. He loves the way his manly hands hold him, and squeeze him, and roam over his body. He loves that he knows exactly how to get Mickey to come and how to draw it out so that it never happens too soon. It’s always best when they can make it last for an hour or more. It’s so hot, and raw, and good. They can just get lost together without ever leaving the bed. If he could make it so that everything else in the world ceased to exist but the two of them and this bed, he would.

He feels like he could touch the stars, and jump over the moon, and hurl through deep space like a comet. They could create other galaxies with the kind of fire they conjure when their bodies join like this—alternate timelines, parallel universes—they could break the matrix.

Ian seems to be pouring more emotion into him than he ever has before, and they’ve had sex hundreds of times now. Mickey feels so full and so adored, if he had a soul it would probably leave his body. The pace increases and Ian’s dick slides against Mickey’s swollen prostate with such precision and determination that it becomes clear the end is nigh. He moans loudly, pushing back into the slams against him, and Ian drops his head down to lick at Mickey’s throat, then roughly bites his left nipple, before licking that too.

Mickey can feel the heat rising in his body, up to the very top of his fevered brain, so he threads a hand into Ian’s hair, yanking his head back, then bringing it down to meet his in another blistering kiss. He can tell by Ian’s frenzied movements, the way his body is tensing, and the look on his face, that he’s about ready to explode.

He tugs lightly at his hair again, separating their mouths and murmuring a quiet, “Almost there.”

Ian smiles like a maniac and goes even harder, punishing Mickey’s rim in the best way. He keeps his face close, the tips of their noses just barely brushing. Their eyes have created their own magnetic forcefield and they can’t be pulled away from one another. They can’t stop staring raptly.

He can’t possibly hold it in any longer.

“I love you,” Ian says, right on the brink of oblivion.

Mickey’s open gaze doesn’t falter and his body stays in tune with Ian’s… more in tune than ever.

“I love you too.”

The climax hits like a head-on collision and they both fall over the edge of infinity—the infinity encapsulated in the cocoon of their blankets, on the sweat-soaked bed, in the nest they built to withstand the fearsome forces of nature ravaging the landscape right up to their very doorstep—bending it to their will without looking back.

 

 

  
*******  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave kudos and comments if you like it. 
> 
>   [💜Tumblr 💜](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)


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